The next few years flicker like memories stitched together by instinct:
Daniels in a baby seat, legs dangling, smacking mashed peas across the table.
He’s screaming for no reason at 3 a.m. and laughing the next second. No thought behind those glossy brown eyes.
He’s held tight against his mother’s chest, as if he was back in the womb. the rhythm of her heartbeat louder than the world.
He’s reaching for the family dog’s tail—getting knocked over gently.
He’s wrapped in a superhero blanket, babbling nonsense to his stuffed animal army.
The world was simple, chaotic, full of color. No stress, no worries, no judgement.
Daniel’s world expands.
He’s racing his bike downhill with his shoelaces untied, teeth bared in joy.
He’s at his friend Jayden’s house for a sleepover, watching cartoons until their eyes hurt.
He’s losing his first tooth and crying like he lost a limb—until he sees the dollar the next morning.
He’s chasing butterflies at recess like a dog.
He’s falling, getting up, falling again, laughing harder each time.
At a birthday party, he meets a kid named Asa.
Asa’s quiet but cool. Good at the games. They’re on the same team during a backyard water balloon fight.
They win. Daniel barely remembers his name a week later.
Just a face.
They bump into each other again a few years later, at a summer camp trip—Asa’s in another cabin, but he joins Daniel’s group for the campfire. They talk about aliens and monsters. Asa tells a scary story that has the kids howling. Daniel laughs along. But the two never really click beyond that.
Still… he remembers his name this time.
Asa.
Middle school came and went like a blurry dream—awkward growth spurts, crushes, and late-night gaming marathons. But high school? High school changed everything.
Daniel’s once wide eyes narrowed with curiosity—and then rebellion.
He skipped class for the first time sophomore year. Nothing serious—just a few hours riding the train around town with his friends, laughing at inside jokes, talking about girls and life and nothing at all. It felt free. It felt infinite. Like the world would always be that way.
Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
By junior year, the weed was more frequent. The parties louder. Red cups, dim lights, someone always getting kicked out. Kissing strangers in basements. Throwing up behind convenience stores. Crying over people he didn’t really love.
Life felt… thrilling. But empty, sometimes. Like he was chasing something he couldn’t name.
Asa was around again—sometimes.
Group hangouts, mostly. The friend of a friend who always had a hoodie on, always had something funny to say, but didn’t talk much unless someone else brought him in. Daniel dapped him up every time, nodded like “Yo what’s good,” but they never hung just the two of them.
Still, Daniel noticed Asa always had this… calm to him. Like he was floating above the chaos.
One night, at a party, Daniel found him sitting outside on the curb alone.
“Yo, you good?”
Asa just smirked and nodded. “Just like watchin’ people. It’s funny, y’know?”
Daniel sat next to him for a while. They didn’t say much. But in the silence, something stuck.
He graduated a little numb. His mom cheered in the crowd. His dad clapped proudly.
But Daniel… just stared at the sky. Something was missing. He didn’t know what.
Daniel didn’t know what he wanted to be.
College just felt like the next step.
Something you do because… you’re supposed to.
Freshman year was a blur of syllabi, ramen noodles, and blackout nights.
He passed his classes—barely.
Some mornings he woke up outside his dorm, head spinning, phone dead, jacket missing.
There were lectures where he tried to pay attention. Tried.
He’d take notes for ten minutes… then drift.
Into his thoughts. Into nothing.
He had hookups that meant nothing. Relationships that didn’t last past midterms.
He fell asleep in the library more times than he could count.
He laughed a lot. Cried a few times when no one was looking.
One night, after a brutal exam, he looked in the mirror and whispered, “What am I even doing?”
No answer came.
He graduated with a piece of paper and a job offer.
Something with benefits and a cubicle.
It paid alright. Enough to get his own place.
So he moved. Bought a small home.
Decorated it with IKEA and ambition.
The first week felt good.
The second… was quiet.
Every day looked the same.
Wake up. Get dressed. Commute. Work. Commute. Eat. Sleep.
Weekends were a temporary escape—clubs, dates, road trips—but they always ended the same:
Monday morning, back in traffic. Back in autopilot.
He dated around. Some girls were great.
But he never opened up all the way.
Never took the next step.
He’d smile. Be funny. Be charming.
But deep down, he was still searching for something.
Sometimes, on the train ride home, he’d scroll through his phone and see Asa in a mutual friend’s story—still chillin’, still lowkey.
They hadn’t talked since graduation.
Daniel wondered how he was doing.
By thirty, Daniel had money saved. A car. A career.
But one night, after a long day, he sat on his couch… TV flickering… food half-eaten…
And just whispered,
“Is this it?”
Time sped up once he stopped keeping track of it, especially after burying both his parents.
He worked until his joints ached and his hair turned gray.
Then one day, the office handed him a cake and a plaque.
“Congrats on retirement, Daniel!”
He smiled for the pictures.
Took his box of desk stuff and left without a word.
He bought a little home out in a quiet neighborhood.
A porch with a rocking chair. A view of the hills.
He liked that.
The days blended.
Morning coffee. Crossword puzzles. TV shows he didn’t really care about.
A neighbor waved every evening.
A kind woman—gray curls, soft voice.
She always smiled. Daniel smiled back.
Sometimes he’d just sit outside, the breeze brushing through his thinning hair,
and wonder:
“What if I’d started that business? What if I traveled more? Took more risks?
What if I’d had kids? A wife? Someone to share this with?”
He thought of old friends.
Jayden.
The ones from college.
Asa.
He hadn’t seen him in decades.
He wondered if Asa even remembered him.
One evening, the sunset poured gold across the sky.
The neighbor waved again. He waved back, slower this time.
His hand trembled a little.
He leaned back in the chair.
Exhaled deeply.
Watched the trees sway.
And whispered,
“If I could do it all again…”
Three days passed.
The neighbor noticed his porch chair was empty.
She knocked. No answer.
Called the police.
They found him in his bed.
Peaceful.
No pain.
Just… gone.
His funeral was small.
No slideshow. No slideshow needed.
Just a few cousins. A coworker from way back.
Someone said, “He was a good man.”
Someone else cried quietly.
And that was it.
No legacy.
No children.
No stories passed down.
Just Daniel.
A life lived.
A life faded.
And in the silence of the soil…
something stirred.
